


Decisive Actions

by Avaxius



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Drama, F/M, Humour, Romance
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-09-05
Updated: 2020-09-20
Packaged: 2021-03-06 20:07:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,065
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26304622
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Avaxius/pseuds/Avaxius
Summary: During a routine, run-of-the-mill study session in the library, Harry is treated to Hermione acting a lot more decisively than usual. H/Hr, Romance and Drama, possible multi-chapter fic. Set from the holidays between OotP and HBP.
Relationships: Hermione Granger/Harry Potter, Hr/H
Comments: 2
Kudos: 50





	1. Arrivals

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer:  
> Don't own Harry Potter. Nor do I make any money from this story.
> 
> Author's Note:  
> A story that I decided to write after reading a certain trope and deciding that there weren't enough of them on the internet. Hope you all enjoy it.

* * *

**~ooOOooOOOooOOoo~**

* * *

**Number 12, Grimmauld Place, Islington, London, England, 09:23, 02/08/1996…**

Harry breathed a sigh of utmost contentment, sleepily staring up at the indistinct expanse of brown above his four-poster bed.

Grimmauld Place, he decided, had become his home.

Soon after the debacle within the Department of Mysteries' depths, Sirius had been exonerated of all charges — it had been argued successfully that a follower of the Dark Lord himself wouldn't be caught dead duelling against his Death Eaters, for fear of what the mentioned individual would do in retaliation.

From that point in time, it had been but the work of a moment for the Marauder to secure guardianship of Harry, finally fulfilling the raven-haired teenager's dream of living full-time with his godfather. Up until the first week of August, Harry hadn't officially moved into Grimmauld Place. But now, the highly awaited period had arrived, and the young wizard had gleefully jumped at the opportunity, glad to never have to interact with the vile Dursleys again.

"Harry? I'm about to get something to eat. You hungry?" Sirius asked, appearing in the open doorway to his room. He was wearing his signature outfit — a dark grey, striped, button-down shirt with a pair of brown slacks, all underneath a velvet, Gryffindor red suit blazer. The man leaned casually against the doorframe, crossing his arms as a roguish grin lit up his features.

Sirius was looking a lot healthier, in Harry's decidedly non-professional yet quite honest opinion. His face had filled out again; his skin no longer stretched tight against his skull. The haunted look to his grey eyes had all but disappeared, replaced instead with an ever-present spark of mischievousness.

"Sure, Sirius. I'll be down in a moment." Harry yawned in reply, swinging his legs out of his maroon comforter and placing his wire-thin glasses upon his nose.

His godfather flashed him another one of those rakish grins before disappearing down the hallway.

Standing up and stretching his arms above his head, Harry looked around his new room appreciatively as he made his way towards the door.

The room had previously belonged to Sirius' late brother, Regulus; as such, the walls had been painted in an elegant mural of forest greens and deep silvers.

Despite it being a decidedly Slytherin colour scheme, Harry found the display rather visually pleasing and therefore had asked for it not to be changed.

When the subject of decoration had come up, he had hesitantly requested that Sirius put up a few posters for him, as the raven-haired teen had not been allowed the choice of adorning his own room before. His godfather's eyes had narrowed at that fact, and, when the teenager asked if Sirius was alright, a terse shake of the man's head was the only reply he'd gotten.

Harry's only plea was that the pictures not be _too_ lewd — he _was_ a teenager, after all, but he was also keenly aware of Sirius' more… _extravagant_ tendencies.

The one glance the boy had taken of his godfather's bedroom, when he had walked past its open door, had permanently etched itself into his mind.

Harry shuddered, tearing his gaze away from the walls of his room.

A brand new, dark brown dresser stood opposite his comfortable, high-quality four-poster — both of which had been fashioned out of the richest walnut wood. His trunk, with black Hogwarts robes and his half-completed summer homework lying haphazardly upon the top of it, sat at the foot of the bed.

His desk — cluttered with miscellaneous items and letters that he hadn't been bothered to clear up — stood under the large window near the head of his bed, a matching office chair resting beside it. A plush, plain-grey rug dominated the open space in the middle of the room, littered with errant articles of clothing.

Mounted directly above the door was one of his most dear possessions — his Firebolt broomstick, its wooden shaft slick with fresh polish and its twigs neatly trimmed.

Hedwig's empty cage sat atop a custom-installed shelf next to his window; the snowy owl had gone out to hunt for food. Harry, in some distant corner of his mind, almost felt sorry for the feisty avian's prey.

He eventually strode out into the hallway, shutting his door behind him.

When Sirius had moved into the old townhouse, the man had told him, it had easily lived up to its name of _grim old place_ — Harry found himself chuckling at his godfather's witty play on words. Threadbare carpets, peeling wallpapers and ridiculously high infestations of magical household pests had greeted the newly freed Black Lord, along with the near-constant, hysterical shrieking of his _dear_ mother, who was trapped in an eternal state of lunacy within an ornate, animated portrait.

The near countless amount of Dark artefacts, objects and archaic booby traps placed all over the manor had almost led to Sirius straight up abandoning the Black Ancestral Manor and purchasing a new, untainted residence right then and there.

But the notion of the powerful defensive and offensive wards — which had only gotten more potent as time passed — protecting the residence had drifted into his mind, and the black-haired man consequently decided to embark on a renovation mission of epic proportions.

The dark draperies had been replaced with those of more vibrant colours and themes. New furniture had been purchased and installed in short order. The house's interior had received a very good cleaning and a highly thorough sweep for dangerous items, performed by Bill Weasley — an experienced Cursebreaker working for Gringotts — and Sirius himself. The garden, its shrubs and plants growing wildly as a result of over ten years' worth of neglect, had been adeptly beaten into presentable submission by the Black Family House Elf, Kreacher.

The cantankerous little elf had, all of a sudden, ceased his snarky remarks towards Harry and Sirius, once the older man had had a good 'chat' with the shorter figure.

After the conversation, the raven-haired teenager had never before seen Kreacher take to his task of restoring the house to its former glory with such alacrity and enthusiasm. Harry had spotted also a quite honestly terrifying gleam of satisfaction within his godfather's eyes upon the elf actually being productive for once.

The issue of Sirius' screeching harridan of a mother had proved a more troublesome issue, however.

His godfather had said that he and Bill, a Gringotts-certified Cursebreaker, a member of the very best of the best in the Cursebreaking field, had tried everything they could think of to take down painting or Silence it.

And yet, they had failed to achieve even one of their goals; all of their attempts to remove the portrait thwarted by a Permanent Sticking Charm and the wall it was mounted on being 'load-bearing'.

Silencing Charms, Sound-Redirecting Hexes, auditory suppression enchantments, high-scale Privacy wards, _you name it_. They had all slid off the former Lady Black's canvas like water running down a hill, while the sole, repulsive occupant of the wooden frame smirked triumphantly at them.

Sirius had been about to admit defeat right then and there, when Harry suddenly channelled his inner Hermione, as he liked to call it, and enquired _why didn't they just Silence the_ space around _the painting, instead of the painting_ itself?

Both adults had stared wondrously at the teenager for at least three minutes upon realising that the suggestion _actually_ worked.

Harry proceeded down the carpeted stairs and into the kitchen, which had also been refurbished and repaired; thinking back smugly on his little idea that had proved successful.

Modernised kitchenware and crockery had been bought and sparkled with a silver shine from their various shelved positions. Copious amounts of dirt and muck, which had long been embedded into the nooks and crannies of the room, had finally been removed; the kitchen space looking much more appealing to the eye as a result.

The long rickety table of before was gone, replaced with a much sturdier mahogany dinner table, accompanied by a set of twelve matching chairs.

It was at this table that Harry found Sirius seated; the older wizard sipping contentedly on a cup of steaming coffee as his eyes perused the _Daily Prophet_ held in his free hand.

"About time you woke up, pup. Was beginning to think you'd died," the man drawled, not even turning around to look at Harry entering the room. The boy in question pulled a face — that Sirius did not see, but very much expected — and slumped into the seat opposite his godfather.

Harry placed his head next to the steaming plate of eggs, baked beans and bacon, which had helpfully appeared once the boy had sat down at the dining table.

He sighed theatrically. "I hate it."

"Hate what?" Sirius enquired mildly, keeping his eyes fixed upon his paper and seemingly not caring one whit about Harry's plight.

"I hate Mondays. They are a constant source of the utmost misery, and should just _not_ exist," the teenager bemoaned, burying his face within the wooden fibres of the table. Sirius snorted lightly in response. "If I ever become the Minister of Magic, my first act shall be to abolish Mondays. And illegalise any events or tasks associated with that dreaded day."

The older wizard took another sip of his coffee, acting unusually calm and composed for a person of his reputation. "Why do you hate Mondays, Harry?"

Harry snapped his head up to stare at his godfather, aghast. "How can you _not_ hate them, Sirius?! They are the…the…Uhm…"

"Mmm?" Sirius had finished his coffee by now, a quick snap of his fingers resulting in his cup being refilled to the brim by an unseen Kreacher.

"The dreaded end of the weekend!" Harry raised his hand to point dramatically at the ceiling. "Mondays should, from this point forward, be reviled by all for the odious crime of signalling a return to _work_ and the end of relaxation."

"I didn't know you even knew the word _odious_ , Harry," Sirius commented absently, after a few seconds' silence.

He suddenly opened his mouth, somehow managing to catch the baked bean that his godson had flicked at his head.

Harry's own mouth dropped open, his face betraying his amazement and shock.

The black-haired man pretended not to notice, keeping his gaze upon the _Daily Prophet._

"You try spending practically all your time around Hermione and not learn anything new," Harry muttered, a dejected pout forming upon witnessing his breakfast-turned-projectile failing to have any significant effect on his godfather.

Sirius finally stopped reading the untruthful tabloid to glance at Harry.

"You learned that word from Hermione, yes? Hermione Granger, the girl who helped you rescue me on Buckbeak's back?"

"Yeah. It'd be pretty hard _not_ to, given that she's practically a walking encyclopaedia," Harry returned fondly.

Sirius' right eyebrow quirked, a mischievous twinkle appearing in his eyes that the raven-haired teen did not like at all.

"Wonder what else you learned from her," his godfather vaguely stated. Harry's brows furrowed as he attempted to discern any meaning behind Sirius' words.

"What do you mean, Sirius?"

"I knew a girl, once. Marlene McKinnon, I think her name was," he replied instead. The teenager blinked at the non-sequitur.

"She was drop-dead gorgeous, let me tell you that. But she was also very smart — on many occasions, she gave even Lily a run for her money in Charms classes. One might even say that she was a _walking encyclopaedia,_ as you described your friend."

Harry was very confused. "Where are you going with this?"

"Just wait, Harry," Sirius said, smiling mysteriously as he took another sip of coffee.

"Now, when a Hogsmeade weekend came up, I, dressed in my most dashing and chivalrous of outfits—" the black-haired man struck a heroic pose, raising his cup as if it was a sword. Harry felt his lips twitch in reply. "—asked if she would not be against accompanying me to the quaint little village. Fortunately, she said yes, and by the days' end, we were…engaging in pleasurable activities, within a secluded little alcove in the Gryffindor common room. You know, the one from which you can see the entirety of the Forbidden Forest?"

Horrified, Harry realised that he _did_ know. He and Hermione had spent many evenings, reading and completing their homework peacefully, in that very same alcove!

"That day, I learned quite a lot of things from her," the older man continued, again pretending to not take note of Harry's disgusted expression.

Putting down his cup of coffee, Sirius' hands rose to — presumably — gesture out the scene. "Such as what sort of _sounds_ she made when I—"

"No! Please, Sirius, I beg! Spare my innocence!" Harry cried, squeezing his eyes tight as his hands clapped over his ears. Braying laughter suddenly escaped the older man; his composed demeanour abruptly falling away.

By the time the boy deemed it safe to open his eyes and remove his hands, his godfather had returned to reading the paper, steam lazily wafting up out of the man's hot drink.

"I was just wondering if you'd learned that yet from your bushy-haired little friend," Sirius then said, completely straight-faced.

Harry, having incorrectly judged the situation, let out another shriek as his fingers wiggled in his ears as if to prevent Sirius' words from going to his brain.

"No? You haven't? Oh, such a shame. Suggest you do so soon, Harry. A little piece of advice for you when you do, though — try not to pull on her hair _too_ hard. They tend to not like tha—"

"I do not want nor need your advice, Sirius!" Harry said very loudly, his chair scraping against the wooden floor as the boy suddenly decided to walk towards a nearby kitchen counter. His index fingers were still firmly lodged within his ears. "Hermione is my _best friend_ , just so you know, so that shall not be happening any time soon!"

Sirius' left eyebrow emulated its counterpart. " _Any time soon,_ Harry? When do you plan to make your move? At Hogwarts, perhaps? Or maybe during a Hogsmeade weekend—"

He was interrupted by Harry reciting in a highly boisterous voice various facts about the Wit-Sharpening Potion, knowledge that he had — of course — gained from a certain, bushy-haired brunette.

The doorbell took that exact moment to ring; its custom-installed melodious charms echoing into the kitchen.

"I've got it!"

Harry shot out of the room before Sirius even had time to put down his cup of coffee.

The older man smirked, shaking his head as his gaze returned to the paragraph about the Hollyhead Harpies' win streak of thirteen straight years finally ending.

Oh, how young romance amused him.

* * *

**~ooOOooOOOooOOoo~**

* * *

**Number 12, Grimmauld Place, Islington, London, England, 10:02, 02/08/1996…**

Harry just about managed to banish the embarrassed flush from his face by the time his hand landed on the doorknob of the front door.

He trusted that the wards would have repelled anyone with bad intentions towards him or Sirius. Pulling on the wooden handle, he unlocked the oaken door and swung it open.

"Hermione? What are you doing here?"

The tanned, slightly freckled face of one Hermione Granger grinned back at him from the doorstep. With a squeal, she stepped forward to embrace her best friend tightly.

Harry squeezed back with equal enthusiasm, pleasantly surprised to see Hermione at his house.

She drew away after a few seconds, rolling her eyes and tucking a strand of brown hair behind her ears. "It's very nice to see you too, Harry. Thanks for asking."

Harry pulled another face, stepping back to allow the girl entry into his house. He grabbed hold of her rucksack — which she had dropped to the stone floor to hug him — with one hand, sneaking a glance at her outfit in the process.

Hermione was wearing a simple, flowery, purple blouse, a grey hoodie wrapped around her waist and a small, golden chain around the base of her neck. Relatively-new sneakers peeked out the bottom of her rather tight-fitting Muggle jeans, and Harry eventually managed to trail his gaze back up to her face.

Her bushy expanse of hair had, at some point between today and the end of last year, become decidedly less wild and more controlled; falling elegantly around her face in long, wavy tresses. He noticed a light smattering of freckles upon her pert nose, and her intelligent, caramel-brown eyes, which were currently peering curiously around Grimmauld Place's entrance hall.

He also noticed a light sheen of pink lip gloss applied to her lips — which he quickly averted his gaze from, unwilling to be spotted in his observation of his best friend's mouth.

She looked quite pretty and very much _female_ , he noted with a slight start, almost skipping through his home's entrance hall as her wavy curls bounced upon her shoulders.

How had he not noticed it before?

"So, Hermione, how have your holidays been?" Harry enquired, shutting the front door behind him with a foot and deciding to push away his sudden realisations.

Hermione flashed him a grateful smile as she saw him carrying her luggage. "It's been good so far, Harry. My family and I went on holiday to France for a month — it was quite pleasant there, at this time of the year. I also managed to finish all of my assignments rather early into the holidays — have you completed yours?"

Harry let out a dramatic groan, raising his free hand to ward off her advances. "Argh! Merlin, Hermione, please don't bring up _work._ Don't remind me that it's—" he gave a deep, exaggerated shudder, "— _Monday._ "

She giggled, glancing at him out of the corner of her eye. The two strolled through the kitchen entrance, and Sirius stood up to greet their guest.

"I'm just kidding, Harry. And why should I not? I happen to think that Monday is a perfectly good and likeable day of the week."

Harry did not reply, a faux disgusted expression on his face as the boy put Hermione's bag down by the kitchen door.

Sirius chuckled, sending an amused glance towards Harry. "You should have seen the mental breakdown he had this morning. It was _hilarious."_

The male Gryffindor stuck his tongue out in reply.

The older man stepped forward, a charming grin upon his face as he turned to face Hermione. "So. You must be the girl my godson has been talking about so much recently—"

The mentioned individual scooped up an apple from the fruit bowl conveniently placed upon the kitchen table to launch it at the back of his godfather's head.

Sirius, with rather impressive flexibility and spatial awareness for a man his age, somehow managed to snag the flying projectile right out of the air before it could impact his cranium.

He promptly took a large bite of the fruit, thanking Harry for the item of food with a cheery thumbs-up.

The boy merely huffed in reply, crossing his arms and slumping down into the chair next to him.

Hermione muffled another giggle into her hand at their antics.

"—Hermione Granger, if I am not mistaken. I am the great Sirius Black, a name I'm sure you've heard of before. I welcome you to my humble abode. Back to it, in fact, given the amount of time you spent here last year."

The black-haired man even had the audacity to _bow_ at the end of his introduction.

Harry had never before felt so embarrassed in his life.

"It's nice to meet you again, Sirius. Yes, I am Hermione," she replied, glancing over at her best friend, whose form was still sagging against the large kitchen table. A glimmer of mischief appeared in her eye. "Does he _really_ talk about me that much?"

"But, _of course_ , my dear!" Sirius took the opportunity to pick up his newspaper and fold it neatly, placing it in his robe pocket soon after. "He speaks about you in during _all_ mealtimes, at many points during the day, and I could swear to Merlin that I once heard him groaning your name in the sh—"

"SIRIUS! DON'T YOU _DARE_ SAY IT!"

The incorrigible Marauder cackled gleefully in reply, sauntering smugly towards the kitchen entrance.

"I'll leave you two lovebirds to catch up, then," he called over his shoulder, finally exiting the cooking space and proceeding out into the hallway.

It was only the fact that the older wizard had strolled out of the kitchen that he did not see Harry giving him the finger.

When the teenager glanced at his best friend, it was to find a light blush upon her face.

She slowly turned to face him. "Your godfather's a… lot to handle, isn't he?"

"Yeah, he is," Harry replied with fond exasperation in his voice. He stood up, heading towards the magical equivalent of a fridge strategically placed in the corner of the room.

"Drink?"

"Please. Orange juice would be nice, if you have it," Hermione replied, grabbing her rucksack and sliding into a seat at the kitchen table.

A glass filled with the requested juice was soon placed in her hands and Harry sat down next to her, a cool bottle of Butterbeer in front of him.

"How have your holidays been, Harry?" she enquired, her eyes briefly darting over to his form.

A wide, joyful smile lit up Harry's features, unbeknownst to the boy in question.

"Oh, it's been _awesome,_ Hermione! Sirius and me have done so much stuff together—"

"Sirius and _I_ , Harry," the not-so-bushy-haired girl automatically corrected.

Harry only blew her a raspberry in reply, continuing to speak regardless of her helpful correction.

Hermione rolled her eyes, secretly delighted to see Harry's spirits so uplifted.

"—such as giving Grimmauld Place some good ol' TLC, finally sorting out my finances and stuff in Gringotts, et cetera. We even went to Diagon Alley to get some of Mr Fortescue's signature ice-cream — you know, the one that tastes suspiciously similar to that Muggle cookies-and-cream flavour?"

"Oh, yeah, I remember," she sighed wistfully. "Merlin, Harry. You've given me a sudden craving for ice-cream."

Harry, though, noticed that her grin — probably at him finally having a happy summer holiday, he thought — had dimmed in luminosity by the slightest amount.

He doubted that anyone, save he himself and a few other, choice individuals, would have been able to pick up such a minute change in his best friend's smile.

"Are you alright?" Harry asked, furrowing his eyebrows in concern.

"Hmm?" came the absent reply. She raised her gaze from the floor to meet his; her hands distractedly fiddling with the sleeve of her hoodie.

"What's wrong, Hermione?" he enquired again, putting down his drink to fully focus on his best friend. "Everything okay?"

"What? Oh, nothing's wrong, Harry," Hermione assured him. She straightened, smoothing out the non-existent creases of her hoodie's sleeves and brightening her smile, probably in an attempt to back up her statement.

Harry, having caught a somewhat false quality to her demeanour, did not fall for it. He took her hand in his, slowly rubbing his thumb slowly over it.

"You _sure_? You know that you can tell me anything, right?"

The brown-haired Gryffindor — judging by the cute, flustered look on her face — was slightly startled by his unusual act of initiating contact.

Nevertheless, she nodded decisively in response to his question. "Yes, Harry. Thanks for asking, though."

Yet Harry had glimpsed the almost-there hesitation in her expression and noticed how she had briefly nibbled on her bottom lip.

He decided to drop the line of questioning, somehow sensing that his best friend wouldn't be dissuaded from her decision.

"Okay, then," the boy accepted, turning back to his half-finished drink.

Harry unconsciously kept hold of her hand, despite currently facing away from her, and resumed his ministrations on it.

Staring vacantly into the cold fireplace, the male Gryffindor thought about what he and his best friend could do for the day. They could visit Diagon Alley for ice-cream, head into the Black Library — though it would probably be Hermione dragging him there, rather than the other way around — or possibly remain in their current seats and enjoy their cold drinks…

Harry continued to entertain notions of possible activities for about five minutes before a spark of mischief briefly appeared in his eyes.

He turned to his best friend, smirking ever-so-slightly. "Hermione?"

"Heh?"

She practically _moaned_ back at him in response, her voice a breathy whisper. Her eyes were slightly dilated; her expression indicating that the Smartest-Witch-Of-Her-Age was far, far away from Grimmauld Place's not-so-dingy kitchen. "Y-yes, Harry?"

Harry was momentarily confused — and not a little shocked, to be honest — as to why she had chosen to speak in such a tone of voice.

Pushing the thought away, the boy proceeded to enact his quickly-thought-up scheme.

"What book are you reading?" he asked, finally removing his hand from hers and leaning over her shoulder to peer at the novel's title.

Hermione, somehow looking relieved yet frustrated at the same time, helpfully held it up for him to see.

 _Pride and Prejudice,_ the title declared proudly in a cursive, elegant, silver font.

The picture on the book's cover was a shadowy silhouette of a bridge, arcing gracefully over a wide river as the sun set in the background. On the bridge's midpoint stood two figures, a male and a female, locked in an embrace with each other.

When Hermione opened the novel to the first page, Harry saw a few things about the book that denoted its age. Its corners had been folded and dog-eared multiple times, the edges possessing the slightest of scuffs and nicks, and the sheets of paper themselves held many imprints of fingers, indicating that her tome was handled and read quite often.

As such, Harry _probably_ wasn't as gentle as he could have been when he snatched the book from his best friend's digits, darting towards the kitchen entrance soon after.

He had taken — at most — five steps into the hallway before a voice promising the very worst of punishments entered his ears.

"HARRY POTTER! You shall give my book back _right this instant!"_

The mentioned individual waved the item in the air much like a bullfighter would taunt a bull with his red flag.

"You'll have to come and get it, Hermione," Harry shouted back, a grin on his face as he quickly scurried up the stairs and out of sight. "Catch me if you can!"

The last thing Harry heard before he sprinted further into Number 12, Grimmauld Place was the muttered, highly non-complimentary expletives — most likely about him, he thought with a smirk — hissed from the mouth of his best friend.

"Language, Hermione! Gosh, I wonder what Ron would say if he was her—"

"GET BACK HERE _RIGHT NOW_ OR _MERLIN_ SO HELP ME I SHALL CURSE YOU WITH INOPERATIVE TASTEBUDS FOR A _WEEK,_ YOU INCORRIGIBLE, IMPUDENT THIEF!"

Harry cackled.

* * *

**~ooOOooOOOooOOoo~**

* * *


	2. The Incident

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer:  
> Don't own Harry Potter. Nor do I make any money from this story.
> 
> Author's Note:  
> Second chapter. Enjoy! :)

* * *

**~ooOOooOOOooOOoo~**

* * *

**The Ancestral Library of House Black, Number 12, Grimmauld Place, Islington, London, England, 11:37, 02/08/1996…**

Sparkling motes of dust danced serenely in the air as a gentle breeze of wind blew through an open window. Beams of sunlight streamed into the room from various transparent apertures; giving the Black Library a very contradictory appearance in comparison to its name. The books — old, musty, countless in number and stored on the many expansive shelves — sat silently, untouched for decades.

Inside the room, with the high calls of distant birds and the sounds of a thriving London teasing the tranquil atmosphere, it seemed that time itself had frozen in a single, ageless instant.

This peaceful visage was abruptly broken when the ornate door was suddenly slammed open. The impact of it against a nearby wall resonated with a loud _thud_.

With the door now wide open, the grinning figure of one Harry Potter was promptly revealed.

Breathing hard, he sprinted into the drafty space and quickly found a niche to hide in. A novel, which was often found in the hands of a certain brunette, was clenched tightly to his chest.

Said brunette then appeared in the doorway, hair askew and expression determined.

As Hermione scanned the room, she reflected on the feelings that had made their presence known in her mind.

There was annoyance — and not insignificant amounts of exasperation — at the fact that Harry had stolen her treasured _Pride and Prejudice_ right out of her hands. Next came relief and joy, in that he was now relaxed and happy enough to engage in antics such as this.

And, finally, a peculiar fluttering sensation in the general vicinity of her stomach from when the boy had massaged her hand; utmost concern for _her_ and her only in his earnest expression.

Hermione shook her head, taking a step into the seemingly empty Black Library. "Harry? Are you here?" she asked loudly.

Her question went unanswered.

"I know you're in here, Harry. Give me my book back."

A car horn, originating from outside Grimmauld Place, took that moment to blare obnoxiously.

"Harry. _Please._ "

Silence was her only response.

She sighed. "I won't throw any spells if you come out right now. Or any punches, for that matter. I promise."

Hermione heard what sounded like a quickly suppressed snort and she paused, attempting to discern from where it had originated.

"Bollocks, Hermione. I can tell you're lying."

His voice came from the far side of the room. The girl immediately turned to face the distant bookcases.

"Language, Harry," Hermione automatically scolded. She cocked her head to the side, somehow knowing that Harry could see the action. "And am I lying, though? _I,_ Hermione Granger, be deceitful? To you, even? Never."

That snort came again.

"Mm-hmm. Sure. So, what was that whole thing about _Braid of Gold_ not being a trashy romance novel?"

Hermione felt her cheeks pinken. "Shut up, you prat. That was completely different!"

Her best friend laughed — loudly this time — and the witch briefly allowed a half-smirk to play upon her lips.

"Anyways, Harry, I'd really like to read my book now," she said, surreptitiously shuffling towards a certain section of the room. "So, if you don't mind, please come out and hand it back."

There was a brief silence.

"Nuh-uh, Hermione. You'll have to find me first. All's fair in love and war, after all..."

The girl, having reached her destination — which just so happened to be on the opposite side of the Black Library to where the wizard's voice was coming from — suddenly launched herself forward.

* * *

**~ooOOooOOOooOOoo~**

* * *

The bookcase was reasonably large.

With it being floor-to-ceiling in height, the shelves were wide and packed to the brim with multiple esoteric tomes. Books like _Compendium of Grey Rituals, Grades One through Three; Ye Olde Parseltongue: Speech of the Snake;_ and _Occlumency For Dummies._

It was constructed from dark mahogany, and, other than an elegant, silver _nine_ embossed into the vertical part, it was no different than any other bookshelf within the room.

Therefore, hiding behind it with his back pressed up against the shelves, Harry was fairly certain that Hermione would fail to find him.

As it was, the boy received quite the large shock when said girl suddenly appeared on his right, seizing a fistful of his grey clothing in a surprisingly strong grip.

"Gotcha!"

The shorter figure pulled with all of her might, attempting to restrain him before he could escape again. She thoroughly relished the undignified squeak of surprise that the wizard let out immediately thereafter.

She clamped her free hand onto his other wrist, while taking a step backwards in order to bring him into a less cluttered area of the library.

Hermione, unfortunately, did not see the small stack of boxes coincidentally placed directly behind her foot.

The teenagers consequently went down in a flailing tangle of limbs and startled cries, hitting the ground with a heavy _thump._

A short wrestling match promptly ensued when both parties realised that _Pride and Prejudice_ sat about two metres away from their sprawled figures.

The brunette, swearing up a quiet yet no less ardent storm — to which Harry cackled amusedly — scrabbled to find purchase on the carpeted floor and retrieve her book. The wizard fought with similar vigour to keep the book away from the girl, all while feeling like he had not had so much fun in his entire life.

After rolling around for a few minutes, each individual attempted to grab the four-hundred-page-long prize while the other was briefly indisposed.

Harry, having forced Hermione onto her back, took the opportunity to lunge for the book.

Inadvertently, he pushed it further away with a misaimed swipe of the hand when the brunette seized the back of his jumper, tugging sharply. Hermione pulled her knees underneath her, diving at Harry just as the boy drew himself up off the floor.

The air rushed out of his mouth with a _wheeze_ as his front hit the ground. Almost immediately, Harry twisted onto his back and tried to rise to a seated position.

He was prevented from moving any further, however, as Hermione grabbed both of his wrists and pinned them to the floor. She straddled his hips in the process and thoroughly thwarted the boy's attempts to free himself.

After a few seconds of wriggling about in vain, Harry slumped against the floor as the fight leaked out of his body.

Hermione briefly released her grip on his left wrist to daintily pick up her book. She lovingly caressed its cover while smirking smugly at the defeated form of her best friend.

She blew an errant strand of hair out of her face, savouring in the delight of her victory over Harry.

The wizard, lying flat on his back, tried not to notice how the action drew her shirt tight against her chest.

"I didn't know you read Lyly, Harry," Hermione commented, as if nothing more noteworthy than a cloud passing far above had just occurred. The witch noticed his half-hearted endeavour to regain freedom and put her novel down, re-affixing her grip on his wrists. She wasn't quite ready for him to move yet. "I've got to say that I'm marginally impressed."

Below her, Harry pulled a face. "Thanks ever so much, Hermione. Glad to know that your faith in me is so inviolable."

Hermione felt an eyebrow climb up her forehead. " _Inviolable,_ Harry? Wow. I'm definitely impressed now."

The boy merely stuck his tongue out at her, flexing his bound hands slightly.

"Where did you learn all of this flowery vocabulary?" she questioned, staring down at the black-haired teenager.

Harry rolled his eyes. "You know, when you spend most of your time around a walking fountain of knowledge, you tend to pick things up here and there."

The way that he had said _walking fountain of knowledge_ — with fond affection, and without any malice whatsoever; unlike a few choice individuals would have — resulted in the girl feeling like a drunk procession of butterflies were having a rave within her stomach.

She managed to smile at him, but only after regaining control of herself. "Why, thank you, Harry. Good to know you actually pay attention to my ramblings."

He grinned back at her and, for a brief moment, Hermione felt mesmerised by his smile.

It had been far too long since the boy had truly been happy.

"How did you even know where I was, Hermione?" Harry then asked, his brows furrowing.

She had to admit that the expression was awfully cute, and suddenly the girl felt the urge to mash her own face against his.

"I was pretty sure that the Voice-Throwing Charm would work, but oh well. In retrospect, I guess I should have had a plan B."

Hermione, having not paid attention to his last sentence, was quite puzzled indeed.

Where on Earth had _that_ notion come from?

She shook her head, focusing back on the conversation.

"You neglected to fully complete the position-masking portion of the spell," Hermione helpfully informed him. Harry looked like he wanted to slap himself for forgetting to perform such an essential task.

However, his wrists were still in close contact with the wooden floor — courtesy of the not-so-bushy-haired witch currently sitting atop him — and thus the boy was unable to cause himself any pain.

The girl giggled at his expression, leaning forward to rest upon her forearms. Her hands were getting tired now.

Her face was now significantly closer to his, as a result, but Hermione failed to notice this.

"Poor Harry," she muttered, faux-concernedly, "should we book you an appointment with a geriatrician? I fear that you've grown amnesic in your old age."

Harry let out an indignant squawk.

"I am _not_ old, Hermione," he protested. "Nor am I forgetful!"

She glanced at him as if to say _are you sure?_

"Okay. Well, fine. _Sometimes,_ things have a slight chance of slipping off my mind."

An amused smirk appeared on her mouth.

"But that does not mean that I am old! As a matter of fact, I have recently reached the tender age of sixteen. Perhaps we should organise for _you_ to see a neuroli…nerolo…bugger, how do you say it…"

"Neurologist, Harry."

"That's the one!" He snapped his fingers as if he had just discovered how to make his very own Philosopher's Stone. "Yes, that. I should probably take you to see one, given your inability to denote my age."

Another giggle escaped Hermione's mouth.

She snorted. "I wonder when the hair will start turning grey and the wrinkles will appear. Circe, you could end up looking like Dumbledore!"

Harry shuddered theatrically.

"Not for a long time, Hermione," he asserted strongly. The boy extricated his wrist from her grip and guided her hand into his inky mop of hair. "You feeling this? All of it, yes? It shall _not_ be turning grey _or_ falling out until some far, _far_ point in the future."

No quick-witted reply came from Hermione, for the brown-haired witch was enraptured with the feeling of his hair. It was almost like velvet. Her fingers encountered no resistance as they seamlessly slid through his black locks.

A whiff of light cologne — a musky, heady scent that smelt vaguely like freshly cut grass — chose that exact moment to enter her nose and Hermione felt herself nearly swooning on the spot.

Her gaze dropped of its own volition to his lips, and, like a moth drawn to a flame, the girl found herself leaning down.

Harry, having glimpsed a strange expression on his best friend's face, fell silent as she brought her mouth closer to his. Though he had a slight (read: very large) inkling as to what was happening, the boy curiously felt no desire to protest.

There was but a hairsbreadth of space between their lips when they were interrupted by a voice from the doorway.

"Hey, Harry? I was just thinking about getting some lu— _oh._ My dearest apologies."

Both teenagers sprang apart upon hearing the amused comment from the entrance to the Library. Their faces took on a deep shade of crimson as they attempted to stammer out a reason for lying on the floor, wrapped up in the other's arms.

"No, no, don't stop on my behalf. By all means, continue in your activities. I'll just come back at a later time..."

"N—no, that's fine, Sirius!" Hermione's voice was rather shrill as she tried to re-arrange her dishevelled hair. "We just tripped and fell over. Is—isn't that right, Harry?"

"C-certainly, Hermione!" Harry somehow went from lying flat on his back to a standing position in no time at all. "Y-yes, what she said. We tripped on some boxes. Yeah, that's what happened. Nothing else."

The girl flushed again at Harry's unintentional allusion. Upon replaying his own words through his mind, the younger wizard reddened even further.

Sirius snorted in disbelief. "You guys all right?"

Harry and Hermione simultaneously bobbed their heads, now standing a good three metres apart.

Smirking slightly, the black-haired man stepped back into the hallway. He resolved to check on the teenagers again at a later point in time. "I'm going to make some lunch now. Feel free to come down when ready."

"O-okay, Sirius. See you later," Harry squeaked, still thoroughly embarrassed.

"Oh, and Harry?" There was a mischievous glint to Sirius' eye that Hermione did not like in the slightest.

"Don't do anything I wouldn't do."

And with that, the Black Lord disappeared back into the depths of his ancestral manor, chuckling heartily to himself.

An awkward silence then fell between the two teenagers. Harry, a red tinge still present on his face, fidgeted with his hands and shuffled his weight from foot to foot.

Hermione, not liking the uncomfortable quiet one bit, quickly picked up _Pride and Prejudice_ and strode to a nearby sofa.

"Well, Harry, I don't know about you but since we _are_ in a library, I am going to read my book," she announced, seating herself in the loveseat. The girl patted the spot next to her with a marginal grin, pretending (for now, at least) that the previous events had not happened. "Are you going to join me or keep on standing over there?"

Harry was grateful for her invitation. "I think I'll join you, Hermione," he said, moving forward to sit next to his best friend. "Just this once, though — did you know that reading can be bad for the body?

Hermione lightly swatted him on the arm, a faux disgruntled expression on her face. "Reading does _not_ cause bodily harm in any way or form, Harry! As a matter of fact, a recent study into the benefits of frequently perusing novels indicated that one's vocabulary, collectively, increased with regularly performing the mentioned activity—"

The boy's loud laugh drowned out her ensuing rant. The two teenagers easily settled back into good-natured teasing, poking fun at the other's hobbies and almost succeeding in pushing what would have happened had Sirius not interrupted out of their minds.

Standing within a darkened recess of the corridor, just outside the Library's entrance, a black-haired man nodded to himself and quietly walked away in search of something to eat.

* * *

**~ooOOooOOOooOOoo~**

* * *

**Author's Note:**

20/09/2020: Righto, second chapter is now done. I hope you enjoyed this instalment of the story. Please feel free to drop me a PM or leave a review if you did.

See you next time.

Avaxius.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 20/09/2020: Righto, second chapter is now done. I hope you enjoyed this instalment of the story. Please feel free to drop me a PM or leave a review if you did.
> 
> See you next time.
> 
> Avaxius.

**Author's Note:**

> 05/09/2020: Alright, the first chapter of a story idea that I came up with after reading a few fics. I plan to make this a multi-chapter story, but as I'm simultaneously working on Respective Counterparts as well as balancing IRL duties — which, while I am sorry to say this, will take priority if it comes down to it — the update rate may be slower than what is optimal.
> 
> As Harry will soon find out, it is not advisable to steal Hermione's books. Ever. :)
> 
> Anyways. Please feel free to drop me a review or a PM if you enjoyed the chapters. Mm-kay, that's all for now.
> 
> See you next time.
> 
> Cheers,
> 
> Avaxius.


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